blame the champagne
by hannabanana13
Summary: Natasha and Clint get distracted by each other, and forget the mission. Clothes are shed along the way. Rated M.


**Disclaimer: Disclaimed.**

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Natasha's in a tight black dress and tall heels, leaning against the wall several feet away, on the other side of the mini-bar. Clint can see her arched back, can see as she bats those long eyelashes, can feel the men in front of her unraveling under her charm.

It's the third assignment this month that calls for Natasha to pull on a tiny cocktail dress, and Clint can barely refrain from itching the collar of his suit. He'd take off the jacket, if only his cover-James Elesse-didn't love the sea breeze smell of Armani. If Fury could create a cover that allowed him to wear jeans, Clint would be more likely to fill out the mandatory paperwork for each mission without complaining.

Natasha, tonight renamed Lora Holliday, moves to open one small button on the top of her dress. It's a signal that's been prearranged between the two of them, and Clint steps forward to snag a sparkling glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray. Clint tilts his head back, downs it in one gulp, and crosses the room to Natasha, sliding an arm around her waist the moment he reaches her. He leans over, ignores the stares of the men she was charming, and whispers in her ear. "Wanna get out of here?"

He doesn't wait for her nod, doesn't wait for her smile: Clint kisses her on the mouth and pulls her backwards until he reaches the door, in which he sweeps her up into his arms and carries her off, her red hair curls falling like a curtain over her face, hiding her away. He feels a sense of pride in his chest, signaling his victory. He is hers.

Natasha rests her hand on his chest, and he doesn't know if it is her heartbeat or his own that he can feel pounding in his head. It hurts him to be this close to her, and surely she must know this. But Natasha merely plays the part she is given, and there is something ingrained in her to obey her orders, she has never been one to question what is it she does not need to know.

But something in Clint can't stop as he moves towards her lips, and as his own crashes into hers, something in him comes apart. He's startled by the feeling he feels rushing up inside him, amazed at the ferocity in which he reaches for her.

Surprised at her response. He can't see Lora anywhere on her face. Clint can't feel Lora in the hands that Natasha has everywhere, and if he didn't know any better Clint would think she wanted him.

But Natasha didn't want anyone-didn't need anyone. This this was the first thing he noticed about her. She didn't need sleep either, didn't eat. Maybe she didn't even bleed.

He sets her on her own two feet-on the slick tiled floor of the kitchen. Clint doesn't remember entering through the swinging double doors from the ballroom, but they're surrounded by empty pots and unwashed dishes so he must have been to caught up in her to realize.

He backs Natasha into an empty counter, places his hands on her hips. Her hands are everywhere: in his hair, on his hips, his face. Clint's lips keep up with her, and he snags the zipper at the back of her dress and catches her eyes with a question.

She raises an eyebrow, and she is _Natasha_.

Here? Her eyes ask. Clint can do nothing but wink. He drags her to the wooden table a few yards away, and kicks a collection of chairs from their path.

Before tonight, he hasn't seen her in three weeks, and the last month has been more bloody than he would have liked to have seen. Maybe he just needs to escape. Maybe he just needs this, but he can't seem to convince himself that it isn't her he wants. However, he loses himself in her and tries not to think.

Natasha swings him around before he can back her onto the table, and she works furiously at his belt. She sheds his shirt, his suit, his tie. Slides off the gun holster and kisses the gun before setting it on the table. Then she raises her hands above her head.

Clint understands the signal, understands as he slides the silky black satin up over her hips, across the smooth pale planes of her stomach, and off. She stands before him in all her glory but he doesn't-can't-waste time looking.

He'll get shit for it later.

Besides, Natasha is kissing him like the world's ending and only he can save her from the fiery pits of hell she might be destined for.

He slides his hands across her chest, but he leaves her bra on, so pressed they are for time. They don't have time to play, so Clint's hands move lower across her stomach down between the warmth of her legs. This wasn't part of the mission, Fury's voice booms inside his head. _Get the information, get out._ The button was the signal, the door was the exit.

Their briefing did not include the mention of his fingers deep inside, the delicious moans she makes as she arches her back around him. He moves with her, fluid, until she begs him, please. Clint does not deny the lady. She spreads her legs for him, one finger in her mouth, teasing. And when he moves inside her, it's the best thing he's ever felt.

Natasha is moaning beneath him, wet sounds that make him turn warm and hard. His hips move with hers, his lips crashing into her own again and again and again. The table sounds like it will break with the force of his thrusts.

Beneath him, she doesn't seem to mind their location, or situation. In fact, few moments pass before Natasha decides to take control, swinging around him to land on top, and straddling him with a smile. She moves her hips like the dancer she is, and he moves with her, feeling her come before maybe she does.

He gasps and follows her over a moment later, panting against the red curls of her hair, where it is splayed across his chest.

Clint breathes it in, and tries not to think about the anger Nick Fury will bring, when he finds out his two best agents spent their evening in reunion.

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**This is my first attempt at an Avengers fic, so let me know what you think? Thanks so much for reading. **


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